to porn
and here is i, the
furious masturbator
asleep in
the
neon-raintree tap of little kisses
that
is she
-
and here is i, never
to curl in the strawberry
hair-flip as
she’ll do
as
you
please
but in the weepy
needs-the-cash and
there, she
is forever
And your brassier is now a ladle
If a mother pumps her nipples with some
machine or
questionable patron, through
infancy and
far
beyond,
they’ll stain a summer’s neglige
regardless of proportion.
for
she was fucking gardeners well
into her 60’s and
no one’s
going
hungry
im kinda working on it…. i dont really know how to go about it though, it confuses me
maybe if i were more climactic i wouldnt be so bad in bed
i hope they never really beat me
never rape my wife and
break my bones
i mean
I’ve
broke a couple bones, but
i hope
they
never really do,
-
i hope
they
never really do
anything
at all
-
i pray for a succession
of minor catastrophes
-
the Missus’ll silently irk
though she’ll stick around for something’s sake
and drink herself to sleep
and
i’ll smell disgust,
fuming in a summer clear where i
have made a picnic and she
wont say a word
but she’ll never kill me
never cut my cock off and throw in the lake.
she’ll never burn my house down and
i’ll never bruise her face
-
the poems’ll take me nowhere and
I’ll knock a couple back before
i take the kids to school
and sure,
they’ll stop eating all my lunches
and tell their mother give them money, where
she’ll reach into my pocket when i planned
to buy a book
but they’ll never tie the rope
never steal my rifle and cleanse a quiet preschool
they’ll never drown the cat
and i’ll never pawn their game boy.
-
and this would be ideal,
for
-
if i couldn’t find some purpose
in writing something about nothing
well,
i wouldn’t write much of anything
at all
magic
when they dropped me off,
listening to
some shitty song
on the radio and
-
there you were
same station, same
shitty
song,
right where i left off
-
now that,
was magic.
-
shitty magic
for you, my love
no justice i
could bring to this
and thus, a pen
in praying
loves you all as
in a mothers mouth’s
a child’s
saying
oh doctor
the day is done
oh doctor, i
forgot
about the children,
come now,
write me rubber soles.
could you write me rubber?
their humming rests a fuming pass and
pigs align all
pensive in their acrid shell.
oh doctor,
write them better teeth in
custom, write
them better smell
-
they were laughing in the haul and
i had nothing to defend
and off to boxes
you were born
oh doctor
write me better
friends
the moor is nodding now
oh man, the
moor is nodding now.
sleep again oh
sleep to sun.
the surface is a
circus now,
the sum of which,
too deep, is done.
